


With You on the Beach of the Sea

by busaikko



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Wilby Wonderful (2004)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:04:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busaikko/pseuds/busaikko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being alive and going on with his life is taking some getting used to. So is this thing with Duck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With You on the Beach of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Garonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/gifts).



> A million thanks to Mific, Solo, and Jo Lasalle for beta duty above and beyond.

>   
>  But just possibly with you on a high hill—first watching lest any person, for miles around, approach unawares,  
>  Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some quiet island  
> Whoever You are, Holding Me now in Hand, Walt Whitman  
> 

* * *

The wildflowers Duck brought Dan in the hospital were vivid in a way that felt unfamiliar and new. Dan couldn't put his finger on why, exactly — how could a handful of pink and yellow fill a room? But the question stayed at the back of his mind as he went through his days, talking to doctors, collecting pills and appointments.

One morning he woke up and the sky outside his window was such a brilliant blue that his head spun when he looked up. He felt lightened, as if he could rise up and wrap himself in the warmth of the colour.

He was struck then by the realization that he hadn't truly _seen_ colours for weeks — or maybe months or years. He couldn't recall when the world had gone pale, and he worried that if he let himself fixate on remembering he'd fall back into habits of fear and sadness. So he decided to just be glad and enjoy the sun and the flowers that also raised their faces skyward.

Carol French had come by to tell him that she was sorry — she'd never forgive herself — and if he wanted to stay, she'd make sure he had a place to live.

"We don't want you to be run off," she'd said, hands fiddling nervously with the clasp on her oversized handbag. "This place _needs_ new blood. People just don't understand that yet."

Dan wasn't sure he agreed with her. But even though the roots he had in Wilby were shallow, they were all he had left.

When he left the hospital, Deena from the real estate office gave him the keys to a tiny rental cottage and a ride over. Apparently, the roof needed repairs and the wall around the yard had toppled half-over; this was why, Deena said, they couldn't rent it to the summer people. "But it's pretty," she added quickly. "There's a bit of a view."

When they pulled up the driveway, Dan immediately hoped there wouldn't be rain any time soon. Most of the roof was hidden by tarps weighted down with bricks. Inside, however, the cottage was perfect. The walls were pale warm yellow, and the living room windows looked out over a wind-twisted stand of balsam fir, beyond which he could see the ocean, sunlight dancing across lapis lazuli waves.

Wilby was beautiful. He remembered that now: that was why he and Val had moved here in the first place. They'd come over on the ferry when they were house-hunting and had fallen in love with the ocean and the trees, the wildflowers, and the picturesque old houses along the waterfront.

"The bedroom's through here," Deena said, opening one door, then another, "and the bathroom." She glanced over her shoulder, gold earrings flashing through salon-blond hair. "We had one of our part-timers come by to put on sheets and stock the kitchen, and Carol brought over your suitcase. You should be set." She brushed her hands down the sides of her skirt, and Dan was suddenly afraid that she was nervous being in the same room with him. But she smiled and met his eyes as she crossed to the table where she'd set down the folder of rental papers. "My sister up in Halifax lives with her girlfriend. She says to say if you want to talk" — Deena waved a hand in the air — "or if you want a discount on carpet cleaning from their company, call. They don't mind."

Dan looked down at the golden wood of the floorboards.

"There's carpeting in the bedroom," Deena pointed out. "Anyway. Whatever. You need to sign these papers before I go."

Dan suddenly wondered if he was being rude; or at least, if he had it in him to be more polite. Neighbourly. "Do you want to have a cup of tea?" he asked, and was unprepared for how pleased he felt when her face lit up and she started bustling about his unfamiliar kitchen.

They finished a pot of tea and most of a box of Royalty digestives before Carol rang Deena's cell phone, wondering loudly where on earth she was.

"Just settling Mr. Jarvis in," Deena said, and gave Dan a wink. "I'll be along shortly." She hung up and dropped her phone back in her bag. There were tiny pink rhinestones on her fingernails. Dan wondered how that worked, and whether it was worth the inconvenience. "I have to go," she said, sounding regretful as she got up. "But call if you need anything, okay?"

Dan promised he would, and she waved goodbye before getting into the car.

He'd worried a bit about being alone, that the walls would close in and the pills he was taking wouldn't be enough to keep the colours from leaching out of the world again. But he took a walk down the road past the other rental cottages, each on an identical lot, and looked at the wildflowers coming up, and the planters of scarlet geraniums beneath each mailbox. The combined vacation-rental shop and grocery at the far end of the road was probably more expensive than Bargain Giant, but he felt comfortable away from the scrutiny of the islanders. He bought a pair of sandals for walking along the shore and picked up guidebooks: one for flowers, and one of birds and other sea-shore life.

"There's white-sided dolphins out there," the woman at the register told him, pointing her chin in the direction of the beach. "You watch when a trawler comes in; they like to follow behind. Sometimes we see seals, even whales out where it's deep. You got binoculars?"

Dan didn't, so he bought a pair of binoculars as well. They weren't cheap, but when he was back at the cottage he spotted two woodpeckers and a crossbeak from the back porch before it got dark. Or so he guessed. The art of looking up birds before they flitted away was hard to master. The birds might have been sparrows. But whatever their names were, he'd seen them, anyway.

He had canned soup for dinner, watched one of the Disney movies the cottage was stocked with, and went to bed feeling quietly pleased with himself. He still felt like he was walking along a balance beam over a chasm, but he wasn't wobbling, and he wasn't falling. Slow progress was still progress, was what the doctors had said.

Duck pulled up in front of the house the next morning while Dan was still eating breakfast, and Dan realized he didn't know what time it was. The sun was well up; it had to be eight or so. He didn't have shoes or socks on, and he didn't know if he was supposed to go say _Hi_.

But Duck wasn't making any progress towards the house, turning back towards his truck every time he took a few steps forward, and his hair was messed up from being rubbed backwards and forwards. Dan figured maybe he wasn't the only person who had no idea what he was doing.

He went out onto the front porch and raised his hand. "Morning."

Duck spun, face breaking into a smile even though he was squinting into the sun. "You're up early."

He jogged up the front path, stopping at the steps and looking up at Dan for a long moment as if he didn't know what to say, his hair catching the sunlight like dandelion fluff. Dan thought he should get some baskets of flowers for the porch, to make the house look more welcoming.

Duck went on, like he was pushing himself to talk despite second thoughts. "The roof crew's coming in an hour. They're good people, Charlie Campbell and a couple cousins of his. But you don't need to be here, and I was thinking, if you didn't _want_ to stick around, we could take a drive. Go up to the Point, maybe, or if you have shopping...."

He looked away down the road, shifting on his feet. Dan wondered if he was cold. Duck had on a short-sleeved plaid shirt, faded red and white. It probably wasn't very warm; Dan's bare toes were feeling the chill on the porch boards. 

"Buddy's got your car up at the station, we could go pick it up. If you wanted." Duck shrugged.

Dan waited a moment, but Duck didn't add anything so he guessed he was done talking. "Did you have breakfast?" he asked, and pointed inside the open door when Duck frowned, apparently confused. "I don't have coffee. Do you want some tea? I..." He was saying this badly. "That sounds good. I need to get dressed." That sounded worse.

But Duck just gave another wide grin. "Great," he said, and followed Dan inside.

Dan and Val hadn't had a lot of people over while they were living in Wilby. A few people from the mainland bank where Val worked had come over for barbecues. Two guests two days in a row was unheard of in the time he'd been in Wilby, but Dan didn't think he minded. Val had been house-proud and anxious about making a bad impression; neighbours dropping by worried her. Dan supposed he was free of the fear of judgement. He'd already made his impression on Wilby, for better or worse.

He brought his bird book and binoculars with him when they set out in the truck; Duck said he knew a good place for spotting birds.

"Name like mine, it figures, I guess," Duck said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as if keeping time to unheard music.

Dan looked away from the passing scenery to study Duck's face in profile. "That's your real name?"

"Close enough." Duck shrugged. "My driver's license uses Walter, 'course, but I don't _feel_ like a Walter or a Wally. Maybe Old Man Walt when I get crotchety and yell at kids for kicks."

Something tugged at Dan's memory. "I think there was a song about Old Man Dan."

Duck snorted, cheeks rounding like he was holding back a laugh. "The one I knew was about Dan the Dirty Old Man. He washed his face in the frying pan."

Dan wondered if his cottage had a frying pan. He'd have to check. It had dishes, cutlery, and a working toaster, so probably. He'd have to look up how much rent he'd agreed to pay as well, and see whether anyone would still rent videos from his shop to give him an income, to pay the rent, to use the frying pan.

"Hey there," Duck said, pulling the car over to the side of the road and parking. His voice had gone gentle and firm, like he was trying to calm a frightened animal. "You good?"

Dan blinked and realized they'd reached their destination, marked by a weather-worn sign and a wide break in the roadside scrub, gravel-paved.

"Thinking about re-opening the shop," he said, and fumbled with his seat-belt. "Sorry."

"About that," Duck said, and licked his bottom lip, giving Dan a prick of unease. "Sandra's daughter and her friend offered to work there until school starts back up. There's plenty of summer people here now; it's when the real money's made. The kids say counter-minding sucks less than other jobs. Doesn't stink like fish or dirty laundry, I guess. And there's free popcorn."

"Well." Dan climbed down from the truck cab, careful not to catch the binoculars strap on the door. "If they're willing to work for popcorn..."

Duck laughed, but apparently didn't mind letting the subject drop in favour of leading the way down the bends of the trail through the deep green woods until it opened onto a pond, still and clear as glass. There was a boardwalk leading off towards the narrow end of the water, and across the pond there were houses with rickety backyard piers jutting out into the water, boats bobbing where they were tied up.

"Mostly yellow perch here," Duck said with a critical squint out over the water. "Don't know if you fish much."

"Never have," Dan admitted. Duck gave him an incredulous look, eyebrows high. "I think... if I caught the fish myself I'd find it hard to eat them."

"People around here don't feel much sympathy for fish," Duck said, but he sounded like maybe he thought about that differently. "Come on. We can cut through here to Ames Beach. There's herons there, sometimes."

Duck turned out to be just as bad at looking birds up, but he could identify quite a few by their songs. Dan envied him that. Duck loaned him a worn stub of a pencil for making observation notes in the book's margins, and seemed content to sit with Dan on the beach grass and watch the ocean, and the thin white clouds drifting across the brilliant sky. The sun warmed Dan straight through, and he didn't feel like the silences that fell were awkward.

He wondered how old Duck was, and watched a heron balance motionless at the water's edge, waiting for prey. He watched the sandpipers dart back and forth, and thought about growing old.

Duck for his part seemed to have had his curiosity sparked by Dan's lack of fishing experience. He asked if Dan had ever dug for clams, and then a few minutes later, if he'd ever picked blueberries. Had he ever skated on a pond? Could he ride a bike?

Dan said yes, or no, and Duck just nodded, like any answer was fine by him. Dan learned that Duck grew wild blueberries in his back yard. "They make good pie," Duck said, with a flash of a smile. Dan noticed that Duck's eyes were nearly the same blue as the sky.

It was well past noon and they were back in the truck heading to Duck's place for sandwiches when Dan asked the question that had been on his mind, on and off, with an ache like old grief dulled by time.

"Have you ever — " he started, then stopped.

Duck cut a quick sideways glance, encouragingly. "Hm?"

"Wanted to," and Dan gestured with one hand, fingers wide like he could catch the right words from the air, "not be... around any more."

Duck was quiet, studying the road. "I never thought about it," he said finally. Dan's face warmed with shame. Before the feeling could consume him Duck went on, "But I spent ten years drunk maybe so I didn't have to think, you know?"

"Yeah," Dan said. There wasn't anything he could say to that, so he let Duck turn the conversation to the good weather they were having and the hassles of summer crowds.

Duck's house was inland, boxy and nondescript, with an overgrown yard. Duck looked around as he unlocked the front door. "Sorry," he said, raising his eyebrows at Dan. "Haven't had company over in a while."

The living room was bare of furniture; apparently it was being used as a workshop, the floor covered end-to-end with half-painted banners and signs for the Wilby Days festival. Dan had to step over and around the clutter to follow Duck back to the kitchen.

"It isn't usually this bad," Duck said, like he was just taking notice that his sofa and TV had been squeezed in to take refuge from the living room chaos.

"Summer," Dan offered. "Like you said. Good to be busy."

Duck tilted his head, accepting the idea. "In this economy, right?" He opened the refrigerator and started pulling out cold chicken, tomatoes, cheese, mustard, and pointed to the far counter. "Grab the bread?"

They ate at the kitchen table in silence; Dan didn't remember the last time he'd been this hungry. His grandmother would have said it was the fresh sea air that woke his appetite.

Dan figured, maybe.

He offered to wash up afterwards, and Duck dried and put things away. When the sink was cleared and Dan turned to grab the dishtowel for his hands, Duck was right there, close enough to touch. He saw Duck take a quick breath, and thought he saw in Duck's eyes an echo of his own feelings. This time, Dan was the one leaning in. Duck didn't push him away. Duck grabbed hold of Dan's shirt and hung on as if he needed the contact as much as Dan did, and it was easy to kiss him after all.

Dan didn't remember wanting as fiercely as this; he felt like he was catching on fire, but it was okay, because Duck was with him, pushing him back against the counter and holding him there with the press of his hips. And Duck wanted Dan, wanted this, just as badly. Dan could tell, because when he put his hands on Duck, testing to see if he could, Duck's breath caught and he shuddered and let Dan touch him all over, feel the roll of muscles in his shoulders and back, the warm bare skin of his arms, the rough line of his jaw. Dan stopped thinking and instead just let himself burn.

When he came back to himself Duck was trying to manoeuvre him towards the sofa with a strong arm around his waist, for some reason not as light-headed and clumsy as Dan felt.

"Sorry," Duck was saying as he nudged Dan down, to sink into cushions soft with age. "Didn't mean to jump you."

Dan stared up at him; Duck looked wary, his mouth a set line, weight settled on one hip.

"It's okay," Dan said, and reached up to catch the hand that Duck was rubbing nervously against his wrist. "It's good."

"Thought we could get to know each other first," Duck said, but he let Dan pull him down to sit next to him. "Like people do."

Dan had dated Val for two years before they married, and he'd met her family. They'd been best friends; Dan had thought that was enough to make a lifetime commitment. Duck made him feel alive. It was a different thing, but Dan thought that this was _also_ what people could do: find each other and fit, just like that.

Still, Duck was watching him like he was resigned to waiting for an inevitable blow, and Dan didn't have the faith in words to know that he'd be able to not make clumsy mistakes.

"We can do that," he said, and took Duck's hand in his own, weaving their fingers together. "Get to know each other. I'd like that."

Duck took a deep breath and blew it all out, and then gave Dan's fingers a squeeze. They stayed like that, the sofa springs conspiring to slide them to meet in the middle, shoulder to shoulder and leg to leg. Dan thought it wouldn't be bad to watch a movie like this, with a comforting warmth at his side.

"I should get you home," Duck said when the late afternoon light came through the curtains, tapping the palm of his free hand against his leg briskly. But he didn't move to get up until Dan did; distracted, Dan thought, by whatever was going through his head.

"Are you busy tomorrow?" Dan asked, remembering all the things he'd never done: fishing, picking fresh blueberries for pie, cycling clear across the island. And then there were the things Duck hadn't done as well, that Dan still had to uncover.

Duck took his ring of keys from the hook and flipped them into the air, catching them neatly. He gave a nod towards the front door, and Dan followed him.

"I need to get these banners hung," Duck said, stepping over one carefully. "In the morning. Should be free after that, if you want me to come by." He pulled the door open and waited there patiently, as if it didn't matter how long Dan took to make his way through the clutter. "Damn. We forgot to get your car. Do you want to...?" he rolled his hand as if anything Dan decided was fine by him.

Dan didn't want the scrutiny of strangers to break his mood. Duck was friends with the police chief; not Dan.

"Maybe tomorrow," Dan said, stepping over a paint can and letting Duck wave him out the door.

The ride back to his cottage wasn't as long as Dan'd thought it would be. He'd have to get a map, he decided. His world was expanding, and it was a relief to have that feeling accompanied by anticipation instead of dread.

Duck left the engine running when he pulled up in front of Dan's cottage. "Roof looks good," he offered, peering up through the windshield "Should hold tight in a storm, now."

Dan didn't have an eye for roofs, but he hoped so; he wasn't going to be leaving at the end of the summer.

"Yeah." Dan undid his seat-belt. "I'll see you, then."

"Sure."

 _The hell with it_ , Dan thought, and turned towards Duck, reaching out to cup his face while leaning in for a quick kiss goodbye. Duck's eyes widened in surprise, but he kissed back, and when Dan climbed down from the truck cab Duck's mouth was curved in happiness.

Dan waved and turned to head up his front path. It was only when he was inside and listening to Duck drive off that he realized he was smiling, too.


End file.
